


(when you are close to me) I shiver

by anamatics



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/F, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamatics/pseuds/anamatics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or "some random strap on porn with feelings."</p><p>Joan Watson is an unexpected prize and what she does to Jamie could crumble the great empires of old</p>
            </blockquote>





	(when you are close to me) I shiver

**Author's Note:**

> some anon asked for strap on porn.  
> title from Walk the Moon's "Shiver, Shiver"

In her experience, sexual intimacy is a means to an end.  It is a bandage on gaping wound caused by a lack of self-reliance, slapped on in hurried sweaty, unappealing rutting.  She has no use for such things, she is not like most people, she's better.  Higher evolved, she's said airily, boastfully; she believes it true.

Yet there have been moments when she's found herself craving that release.  It builds, festers for days, until she finds herself flat on her back and ultimately unsatisfied.  Men, women, the people who fall somewhere in between, she's had them all at one point in time or another and she can count on one hand the number of times she's walked away from such an encounter truly satisfied.

There had been a girl when she was just sixteen, another at university, a man she'd rather not think of at twenty-three, Sherlock before he'd lost his novelty.  Four times that seem to disprove her logic, though she knows it is sound.  She simply has no time for such things.

-

Joan Watson is an unexpected prize and what she does to Jamie could crumble the great empires of old.

At first it is a simple fascination: how had a woman so apparently ordinary done something so extraordinary?  It is a question that eats at Jamie's mind through months of captivity.  She sells her secrets for freedoms she believes she is owed in captivity, one by one until all that remain are the secrets she doesn't wish to share at all.

It is with paint-streaked fingers one evening in April that she spins the truth into gold and is allowed her clemency. She stands outside of her warehouse prison and faces the one person she'd never expected to come and collect her.

"It hasn't been a year yet, Joan," she says with a cruel smile. The false familiarity of her given name should be enough to startle Watson, but she gives no outward signs. "People will talk."

"Get in the car," is all Joan Watson says in return.  She's kind enough to pop the trunk for Jamie's suitcase, but she does not offer to help her put it inside.  Jamie's wrists still burn at times, the scars raised red and angry, and they are screaming in protest as she shoves her suitcase into the back of the car.  Her breath fogs in the air, cold and damp as the breeze blows it back in her face. It feels like she's walking to the gallows, moving to get into the passenger seat of Watson's rented car.

Watson's fingers are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that they are white, and she's staring straight ahead.  "I will take you to the airport, to the train, or hell, even the ferry at Orient Point. I need you out of New York yesterday."

"Are you that worried that I'll try and worm my way back into Sherlock's heart?" Jamie could almost laugh.  She doesn't care about Sherlock that way, not any more.  He's special, like and yet unlike herself. She will probably always hold him in high regard, but that bridge is well and truly burned.

She looks at Watson then, and sees the slight flush on her freckled cheeks, the carefully, intentionally, measured breathing, and the slight dilation of her pupils.  She's afraid, Jamie realizes, or aroused.  Some combination of the two seems more likely – _I’ve caught you in an interesting lie, Joan Watson_.

"I don't know what you'll do," Watson's hair is falling into her eyes, but Jamie's lips are already quirking up into a little triumphant smile. Watson's face is an expressive canvas and what Jamie sees is fascinating.  She'd never expected something like this from Joan Watson.

A plan swims hazy, half-formed before her eyes.  "Tell me something," Jamie says, leaning forward, fingers touching Watson's knee. She's wearing leggings and they're soft under Jamie's fingers, cotton wool blend, she hasn’t switched to summer clothes just yet. What is more telling than anything else is that Watson does not shy away from the touch, but her eyes drop down to stare at Jamie's hand and her expression becomes unreadable. "How are you faring in your romantic endeavors?  Sherlock's letters have been rather lacking in updates on that front as of late."

"He shouldn't have mentioned it do you in the first place," Watson says, turning to look out the window that the gray sky and choppy waters of the river beyond Jamie’s former prison.

"And it's none of my business?" Jamie lets a teasing note creep into her voice, allows herself a little self-deprecating laugh.  This is an exercise, nothing more, no matter how intrigued she is.  It will be ultimately unsatisfying, in the end.  It usually is.  "Because I think you might be looking in all the wrong places."

Watson turns to her then, irritation clearly written on her face.  "Of course you know," she says, half to herself and completely resigned.  She sucks in a breath of air and meets Jamie's gaze evenly. "Where should I be looking, then?" she asks, eyebrow raised in challenge and all the fear gone from her eyes.

Jamie moves her hand, fingers still pressing gently against Watson's leg, slowly higher.  "I-" she says, falters completely intentionally, leaning forward.  Watson smells like something spicy, maybe ginger, and Jamie swallows, a picture of a woman venturing forth with a nervous proposition on her lips.  She's curious if Watson will bite at her bait. "I might be able to provide some insight."

And it is the strangest thing, as Jamie finds herself being kissed with a ferocity that almost alarms her, that she'd never thought to do this before.  She'd assumed, given so many factors, that this could never be an option.

Her accounts may be frozen, but Jamie has resources that she’s never mentioned to anyone. She digs a credit card from the bottom of a wallet she hasn’t used in close to a year, and slides it across the counter to the hotel clerk who squints at Irene Adler’s driver’s license for a long time before complimenting her haircut and passing both back with a room key.  “Enjoy your stay,” he says with a lewd wink and Jamie decides to have him killed before she’s done with Joan Watson.

They get upstairs, however, into the room and Jamie is very quickly starting to realize that it is Joan Watson who is going to be getting done with her.  It’s not how she’d planned for this to happen, not that any of this was planned at all. Watson’s fingers are in her hair, curling at the nape of her neck and she’s kissing Jamie like she’s the breath of fresh, free air that Jamie had sucked into her lungs upon exiting her warehouse prison. 

She’s been fucked more times than she can count.  It’s easier, really, to smile prettily and get a man to sing like a canary than it is to break into his house and ensure his murder comes swiftly from the muzzle of a gun (although Jamie does prefer that way).  Sometimes, Jamie knows, discretion is key, and she’s on her back, fingers in her hair and her blouse half-undone before she can determine if this is the sort of situation that calls for such actions.

It has been months with only Agent Matoo for company, punctuated with a brief visit from Watson, from Sherlock, and a darkness – a violence – that Jamie’s never been able to shake.  Jamie _wants_ this, she realizes, now that Watson’s taken her bait.

Consequences be damned, she twists her fingers under the hem of Watson’s shirt and lets her head fall back onto to the starchy smelling duvet.  Her skin is warm, and she’s groaning into their shared kiss, their pelvises grinding together and Jamie’s shocked by how easily she’s gotten wet, how good this feels to know that Saint Joan Watson wants this from her. 

 _Dearest enemy mine,_ she thinks as Watson sticks her tongue into Jamie’s mouth like she’s trying to fuck Jamie there as well as with the slow and steady roll of her hips.  _How sweet your downfall will be._

But it is Jamie’s downfall in the end.  She comes apart at the seams, her body aching as Watson’s tongue dips inside her, fingers pressing into her bucking hips hard enough to bruise.  She hasn’t had a woman like this in years, her chest heaving and her mind completely and utterly blank, caught up in her release.  Watson’s tongue is like an angel’s, sent to entice her back to the world of the good and the righteous.  She moves up, dragging her tongue along Jamie’s cunt and settling, breath warm and heavy, on her clit. 

 _She’s done this before,_ Jamie’s addled mind realizes.  _She’s done this before and she’s brilliant at it._ She tries to keep the sounds that bubble up within her from escaping her lips.  She tangles her fingers up in Watson’s hair, pulling just a bit too tight, one leg thrown over Watson’s back as she tries to keep it all inside.  To come apart so openly, so publicly, that is not what Jamie wants.

Watson’s fingers slip inside her and she’s looking up at Jamie with half-lidded eyes and Jamie’s eyes snap shut. She cannot look at those eyes, looking at her with such lust, not with Watson’s fingers curling just right and hitting the spot inside her over and over that makes her see stars and all the multitudes in the universe at once.  She has Jamie so completely that Jamie doesn’t realize that she’s half-way to sobbing, riding out her orgasm.  It is so much, too much, and she comes apart with a strangled sob, pulling at Watson’s hair and trying to press her closer – impossibly closer – to make this feeling last. 

She is shattered, lying back, hands above her head and Watson sitting up, wiping at her mouth, her expression unreadable. 

“You’ve done that before,” Jamie accuses her, body almost painfully sensitive with aftershocks. She sits up, watching as Watson’s fingers snake across her breasts and down her stomach to touch her once more. 

“I think the better question is if you have,” Watson replies, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it fall uselessly to the ground.

Jamie lets out a low chuckle, sliding forward and batting Watson’s hands away from her bra.  Her fingers twist the clasp and pull it loose.  “I have,” she says, looking up, her lips pressed to Watson’s breastbone.  She’s always liked the mysteries of women more than the easy predictability of men, anyway, and falling to her knees before Joan Watson seems an apt tribute to the woman who’s bested her more than once now. 

Watching Joan Watson come undone, Jamie realizes after the third time, might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

-

It was never meant to grow beyond that first encounter.  She'd fostered the seedlings of an attraction, because it was what she'd thought she'd wanted, a new and intriguing way to destroy the happiness that Sherlock had found without her.  She'd never thought it would go this far.

And she's found that her hands are no longer enough to count the number of times she's found herself utterly sated by Joan Watson alone.  It is unexpected and alarming, how little control Jamie seems to have over the situation now.  She wants when she knows she should not, Watson's bad at hiding things as it is.  Sherlock knows what is happening and he will try and put a stop to it.  What that happens, Jamie will find herself faced with a choice: does she run or does she fight for this... new addiction?

"I think you make me mad," Jamie says to Joan - and she has to be Joan because they're doing things that people who call each other by their surnames certainly do not do - late one night.

"Why's that?" Joan asks.

"Because I don't usually..." Jamie can't answer her, can't lie to her but can't speak the truth either.  She bites back the words and refuses to meet Joan's eyes.  "Because doing this is insanity."

-

Over time, Joan starts to learn Jamie's patterns, her way of thinking.  She takes the smokescreens that Jamie throws up to protect herself and calls them bullshit, demeaning, insulting.  Jamie wants her to feel demeaned, because if she feels demeaned maybe she'll leave and Jamie won't have to answer to the ache in her chest every time Joan falls asleep curled against her shoulder.

"Do you feel handicapped by your gender?" Joan asks one night.

"Why should I?  I'm better," she says almost petulantly.

Joan rolls over, hand thrown over her eyes and a sheen of sweat glistening everywhere on her in the candle that Jamie had lit and set on the bedside table before they’d started.  “You fuck like a man,” she says.

“I do not,” Jamie replies, poking Joan in the ribs.  She looks up then, meeting Joan’s gaze evenly.  “But I think you could,” she confesses.

-

“I’m not sure about this,” Joan says and Jamie is halfway through undressing her, heel of her palm pressed against the telling bulge shoved down her pants.  It’s awkward, not what she’s used to with Watson.  She tugs at buttons and zips, and has it bobbing obscenely between them, half distracted by her want to see if Watson can do this, if Watson can swallow the shame and the awkwardness and do what Jamie is sure she was born to do.

She pushes Joan back into her bed – they’re in Sherlock’s house – Sherlock is god-knows where and Jamie wants it to be here that they do this because it’s perfect.  She’s going to let Joan have her as Sherlock once had, and she’s going to compare the two and try and swallow the lump in her throat as her fingers tug at denim and ill-fitting underwear that just barely hides what Jamie’s already brought out into the light.  “Lie there,” she says, throwing the pants and knickers to the floor.  “Hands on the head board.”

Joan regards her with a look that Jamie’s come to know means that Joan thinks she’s being overly theatrical, overly dramatic, _herself_.  Jamie ignores her and sheds her clothes in short order.

“No underwear?” Joan asks, her hands resting, open, above her head.  It’s better than Jamie was expecting from her.  She usually tries to resist in any way she can.  “People will talk,” she adds, echoing a conversation from what felt like months ago now. 

She climbs onto the bed and straddles Joan’s hips looking down at those open hands and the face that so clearly looks up at her with emptions that Jamie’s never been particularly good at reading.  What they have is complicated, a weight on Jamie’s chest that presses down hard at the most innocent of moments, threatening to choke the life from her.  She hates those moments, when she’s faced with the reality of what this is, what this could be. 

“Maybe,” she leans over, what they’re about to do pressing uncomfortably into her stomach as she presses her lips to Joan’s.  It is an easy kiss, slow and deliberate, everything that Jamie doesn’t want from this.  There is so much of this that she doesn’t want, that she never anticipated _needing_ that she feels sick to her stomach as Watson moves her tongue in and out of her mouth like it’s her place to do so.  They’re beyond saving, both of them, Jamie knows this.  She knows this and she moves her hips forward, rocking against the toy that bobs obscenely at Joan’s waist. 

“How is this going to work if you don’t want me to touch you?” Joan wants to know when Jamie pulls away, lips red and swollen, feeling battered by the kiss alone.  That is the feeling she chases, the feeling of Joan Watson’s winning of their little sparring matches over and over again, despite Jamie’s continued best efforts to snatch a victory from the jaws of defeat.    Joan knows her, how she thinks and how she wants this. It can never be easy, and it keeps Jamie guessing and leaves her utterly satisfied.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Jamie answers, one hand between her legs, touching herself, Joan, the phallus that stands as a barrier to how she’d usually do this.  She wraps her fingers around it and watches Joan watch her guide it home.  It’s oddly erotic, watching Joan suck her lower lip into her mouth and seeing how her eyes go almost black with desire.  Jamie hasn’t been with a man in well over a year, longer still if she counts her time playacting as Irene in captivity.  It had taken months to get fully into that mindset, and she still catches herself in mannerisms that she’s yet to unlearn. 

Joan watches her with concerned eyes and Jamie bites back the sound that escapes her throat – it’s harder than she’s used to, not pliant beneath her fingers.  She feels full to the point of bursting, teetering on her knees and toes.  It’s then, when Joan’s hands fly up to steady her she bats them away.  “No,” she says, and Joan watches as they start to move, start this dance again.  Jamie’s grinding down with her hips, but the angle isn’t great.  Joan’s hips are rolling to keep her thrusts, little upwards motions that send shockwaves through Jamie’s spine, her fingers twisted into the beautifully crocheted bedspread that Joan’s whispered to her that her great-grandmother had made back when her family lived on the west coast and her great-great-grandfather had helped to build the railroads.  She wants to see if Joan will take the next step, to ignore Jamie’s request and fuck like Jamie thinks she’s capable of. 

It is slow now, a gentle rocking of their bodies and Jamie can tell that Joan wants more, she wants to touch, she wants more than the show that Jamie’s giving her now.  “Touch…” Joan says, looking Jamie dead in the eyes.  “Touch yourself.”  They have both, it seems, been with enough men to know that while this works for Jamie’s purpose, it does not work for the end goal of any such exercise. 

Jamie regards her, rocks her hips forward and lets out a small breath of air.  She leans forward, fingers resting feather light on Joan’s breasts and regards her solemnly.  “Why would I touch myself, Joan, when I can touch you?”

For a moment, nothing is said at all, and they’re not moving – lips swollen and chests heaving.  Jamie is wet and wanting and she’s sure that if she were to snake her hand down beneath the harness of the toy, that Joan would be the same. 

It is with a soft exhalation of breath that Joan breaks the rule of the engagement.  Her hands fly to Jamie’s hips and she drags Jamie down hard, filling her to the point where she can feel all of the stupid toy that she’d thought would make this work better.  “Because I want you to,” she says, and her fingernails dig into the soft skin at Jamie’s hips, holding her steady so that she can push more firmly into her.  Jamie can feel it, she can feel it and she wants more, wants to know what Joan is capable of. Nothing is ever enough for Jamie. 

She lets her fingers twist around Joan’s nipples, tempting small sounds and more urgent upward thrusts from Joan.  Each one slams home and Jamie feels her resolve to see this game though in this manner and not flat on her back fading.  She’d get off that way, Joan probably would too, and that is, after all, the point of all this. 

The world shifts, Joan’s had enough of that, of Jamie’s games – for that’s all this can ever be.  The lie feels heavy on Jamie’s chest as she finds her hands gathered above her head and Joan’s lips pressed against her neck.  She wants to fight back, angry at Joan for breaking her arbitrary guidelines for this game.  Joan’s hips are moving though, and her lips have pulled back teeth that are biting harshly into the skin at Jamie’s neck. 

Joan braces herself on one elbow, her other hand still keeping Jamie’s out of the way.  She’s a little up then, a little cocky as her hips drag forward and all Jamie can see is her eyes and the freckles that drift across her cheeks like the stars in the night sky.  The scratchy bedspread, beautiful as it is, is digging into her back and arse and the friction of it all feels like it’s rubbing her raw. 

She’s exposed, and this wasn’t – this wasn’t—

“I thought so,” Joan says as Jamie’s mouth falls open and her breath comes in short little gasps that sound so feminine and wrong and she doesn’t like them at all.  Their pace is frantic now, and Joan’s whispering in her ear, saying things that Jamie would have never guessed someone like Joan Watson would say, not in a million years.  She’s smirking when Jamie fights her hand free and presses it between them, rubbing harshly at herself because she wants release and this isn’t going to do it. 

She comes with Joan’s tongue in her mouth and her breathy little moans all but swallowed by the kiss, and she’s shaking as Joan pulls away, pulls out. It feels better, then, to feel Joan press a kiss to her still-trembling thigh.  It doesn’t quite feel like how she would have thought it would.

“Did I pass your test?” Joan asks as she turns to loosen the straps on the harness.  Jamie had found the best possible one, after all, and it fits her snugly but the getting it on and off part requires some doing.  Jamie tries – fails – to sit up, and runs a heavy hand through her hair. 

“I-” Jamie swallows back the words, fingers tugging at her hair.  She wants to pull Joan down and kiss her and twist her fingers around Joan’s clit until she comes, but somehow, it doesn’t seem right.  Jamie’s torn, confused.  She bites her lip and looks away.  “It was … good.”

“It was weird, you mean,” Joan says quietly.  She sets the toy on the floor and tugs the covers of the bed down.  Jamie feels like a disagreeable cat, being tugged under them after Joan, and the bed feels too warm despite her nakedness.  She turns into Joan’s shoulder, her breath a quiet whisper against the arm that Joan has slung around her. 

“It was a bit… wasn’t it?”  Jamie sighs, tilts her head so that she can see Joan’s face.  “I do feel limited by my gender,” she confesses, answering the question that had started this whole thing.  “But never by my sex.  Women are hopelessly more complex than men, and I prefer that complexity to the mundanely of men.”

And Joan, who is not tactile and does not give out gestures of affection easily, turns and presses a kiss gently onto Jamie’s forehead.  “Do you?” she asks, and there’s far more weight to the question than Jamie could have ever imagined. 

“I do,” Jamie says.  It is as much of an answer as Joan is ever going to get from her in this endless string of games and petty experiments.  Jamie just hopes it’s enough to hold her interest as well.


End file.
